


Where Did You Go?

by HelloTroggy



Series: Within Time and Space [2]
Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Begging, Dom!Mando, Dom/sub Play, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, If the Crest is Rocking, Impact Play, Masturbation, No use of y/n, One Shot, One Shot Episode, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink elements, Pussy Play, Reader Insert, Spanking, SweetGirl!Reader, The Bucket is Off, pre-season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloTroggy/pseuds/HelloTroggy
Summary: To the Cantina, bed, and then to work. He's gonna go do whatever it is Mandalorians do. And your life is going to go on.
Relationships: Mando/you, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian/Reader
Series: Within Time and Space [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079729
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	Where Did You Go?

Get a drink. Check the trades. Slack off till 06:30. Get up and get at it. The interlude is over, and you have a schedule to keep.

“A snort of Spotchka, please.” You ease on to the nearest stool along the cantina’s bar. It’s so late, and you’re probably only getting served because the bartender likes you well enough. It hurts to sit, for the time being. Hopefully, the drink will take the edge off the _sensation_ , but there’s only so far you can run from your own beat up insides. The bartender, gosh you can never remember their name. You always tip, and are never a problem, so when your pathetic hide staggered up to their door four minutes after closing with a pitiful look on your face, all they could say was “One drink.”. You agreed, gratefully flashing the credits you had to pay and then be on your way. 

Why do you feel so low right now? The intoxicant has you feeling a little less sore all over, inside and out. You don’t feel so stiff as you finish the trek to your old lady: the Albatross, an old but serviceable HWK-290. You're happy to see her; you’re home. Feeling a little looser, a little more ready to hit the hay, you stagger aboard the old bird. Taking stock of yourself before calling it quits. 

So. After you’d had your drink, you accept a job whose pick up is at your next destination. So, you were still on schedule to part with what you had, and had the next payday lined up. What more could someone in your line of work want? Everything was fine. And Hell, you’d even got laid. What did you have to feel bad about? You ease yourself into your bunk, and let everything go, telling yourself everything will feel fine on the other side of some sleep.

___

“M-Mando” your voice is a whine, so close to shameless. He’s got your nipple pinched between callused digits. Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as he slowly increases the pressure. You can’t catch your breath after a few moments of this, and start to pant. A gentle rotation to the side has you keening. “Are you going to do this the right way or do you need more encouragement?” it’s amazing, the rich sound of his voice without the modulator between the two of you. You want him to keep talking. “Pleaseplease Mando. Please… I… I want…” you’re trying your best but he’s continuing to torment you. “Please what? You want what?” he sounds so sweet. Like he wants to give it to you, but just… _doesn’t_ know what you want. 

You’re still on your side with Mando pressed up against your rear. He was still armored, sans helmet, and you’re just in a cotton tunic top. He’s got a hand up under your shirt, driving you insane, slowly. He’s working your body into such a state you’ll surely lose it if left unsatisfied. He nips at your ear, shocking you back into the moment, and you’re struggling to make the words you need to answer him. “Please.. I-want you” you manage at first before giving up and you’re slurring “fuckmepleasesirrr”. Wow. That’s dignified. He chuckles at you, because of how foolish you are right now. He makes a humming how and nuzzles against your ear. “You want me to fuck you, sweet girl?” His voice is a purr. You nod, not trusting your mouth anymore. “You want me to make that amazing pussy of yours come undone?” he’s whispering, now. It’s too much. Too much. 

“Sir!” you’re gasping and trying to hold in a moan. You cry out at the sharp report following the swat he gives your ass. Warm, wet, sharp, pressure sinks into your neck. The groan he makes vibrates along your skin as he bites, not hard but holding. Your breath is coming quick and shallow. The hand that had been at your breast, the hand that had just spanked you, is making its way down your body to where you’re so hot and bothered. “You want me, pretty girl?” he sighs as he gets a hand on your mound, giving it a stroke before settling his hand down lower. “You asked so politely.” those fingers are spreading over you and moving to cup your sex.

He parts your lips and gets a finger on your clit, and there is no more restraint in you as he begins to stroke you while still pulled up against him. He’s muttering something; like he did earlier? You can just barely hear him over the feeling of him rubbing your clit like it’s his mission to make you scream. “Sweet girl… so cute... gonna make you come… gonna give you this dick… can’t wait.. fuck you so good” his voice is so low, and deep. You feel yourself getting wetter by the moment as he works you over and fills your ear with filth.

After a long bit of him teasing your clit within an inch of your life, you feel him shift. The hand stops and leaves; his hips begin to move, and you can feel a hand working at the hem of his pants. The warmth of skin on skin is pressed against your ass, and you can feel the hard length of him.

You can feel him stroking his cock. It takes all your will to not make a sound. There’s a shift. He’s no longer pressed against your back, but he’s got a hand on your hip to pull you back. His head presses into your warmth. You start to arch your back against his penetration, when the most shrill claxon you’ve ever heard in your fucking life begins to go off like you had personally offended it.

“Dank Farrik!” he swears venomously, letting out a seething growl through his teeth. Before you know what’s happened, you feel him shuffling behind you. There’s a rustle of fabric, a hiss of discomfort, and a tiptaptiptapTINK. It’s dark, and then it isn’t. He’s towering over you. Over two meters of black tactical fabric and shiny Beskar. Crowning glory restored and covering the mouth that never seemed to want to leave your skin. “I’m sorry” hums the modulator. “It’s work… I” You raise a hand to stop him. “It’s fine.” You stand up and get dressed without ceremony. There’s no heat, no ice. But there’s hurt. So, you don’t dawdle. You’re out the hatch in a split, and begin making your way about your business.

Drink. Ship. Sleep. Feel better later.

___

You wake up feeling like Bantha shit. Worked through seven stomachs and left out in a hot desert under twin suns. You’ve got 10 minutes in the ‘fresher and 5 minutes to make and drink your caff before you need to be in the air. This is the routine that you’ve had for the last 10 years, ever since your uncle died and left you this beautiful pile of scrap. You were done waiting for your life to happen, and hadn’t looked back. Not since you’d signed up with a freight union, and began hauling who cares what all over the Maker’s wide open space.

You sipped your caff with one hand, and punched coordinates and calculations into your hyperdrive system. In your hold was nothing crazy. Nothing valuable. That’s why these jobs were cheap, plentiful, and quick. Most didn’t see a point to them, truth to tell. Could just as easily risk a little more and make a little more dosh. You, on the other hand, just wanted to keep the old bird running and see the galaxy. You didn’t need the latest, greatest, best, or most anything. Setting your sights on achievable goals meant you achieved your kriffing goals.

But every once in a while, you’d get a bug up your ass. And you’d take a high risk, high pay job. Something a little less than legal, you’d say. And you’d normally demand a stipend for security, and your record was sound enough that your agent wouldn’t argue. That’s how you’d met the Mandalorian. He’d been between bounties, been in the cantina, and you’d gone to Greef Karga to recommend a goon. 

Your train of thought is stopped short by the tone of your transceiver. A message? You don’t know who it could be from and are stunned to hear the modulated baritone of the Mandalorian. “Hey… I hope you’re... I wanted to.., crink it all. I’m not good with this, so bear with me.” you hear a rustling sound and what you’d swear is… cooing? “I have important things that are time sensitive. I can’t neglect my responsibilities. I’m sorry that I didn’t give you what you deserved. If you’re…” and then his voice becomes distant _“Give it back! I need that.”_ “I’ll keep an eye out for you. I hope you’ll let me make it right.”. The audio cuts and you’re left in your chair, struck dumb by what you’ve heard.

Hope you’ll let him make it right? Not a straightforward choice, regardless of what your nethers say. The fact of the matter is that no matter what he “makes right”, he’s going to wind up leaving again. And that doesn’t feel right to you, in the least. You hate leavers. Maybe because you are one? Relationships are transactional in the Galaxy. You take when there’s some to take, and you don’t give unless you’re really sure it’s a wise investment. But what you and Mando had done? Whatever that was… You’d just given to him. You’d given and you’d wanted him to take more.

What a surreal thought. 

As you engage the hyperdrive, you think some more. About the Mandalorian and all that came with him. His work. His Creed. His needs. All of it felt like a lot. You see the stars streaking past you, knowing some might be long dead by the time you’re seeing them. Maybe that makes them all the more beautiful in their impermanence. And you’re suddenly grateful you get to see beautiful things. And feel them too.

Feel? Feeling Mando? Now that’s a thought. That’s a thought you want to sit with as you relax into a nine hour long hyperspace jump. You blush to think about how you found yourself on his ship in the first place, but what followed was so beyond expectation. It would be easy to doubt it’d even happened if it weren’t for your very sore backside. 

Now that there’s just the stars to keep you company, you put your hand down your pants. You’re running a forefinger over your covered slit, and you think. You think about Mando, and his hands, his mouth, his voice, and his dick. You think about how he’d worked you up so hard, only to bail on you for a kriffing alarm. You yank down your bottoms and underwear, intent on reveling in what you’re going to do to yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank everyone who's read "Where We Are in the Dark" and those who've continued to be interested in my work. This series continues to surprise me, and bring me joy to write.
> 
> Super special thanks to my friend Jingle Jangle, who doesn't have an AO3 account and is a supportive reader and editor behind the scenes.


End file.
